Touching Flames
by Tare-Bear
Summary: "Already air is a knife in my throat and I force my body to run faster. Flee better. Behind me the sounds of the dying tributes echo into the sky, nagging at me to turn around, to protect them. They're only children. I've never been able to resist a child in need... their screams.. pleas.. before I know what I'm doing, I'm turned around and running back." OC/Normal Hunger Games.
1. Chapter One

A/N: If you truly care about me at all, you'll give this story a chance. -Taryn(:

* * *

Chapter One

When I wake up, my eyes immediately focus onto the shadows dancing across the ceiling. I hear footsteps. My body livens, pulling itself from the bleariness of sleep in an instant, back muscles screeching against my sudden movement to sit up. And for a moment my eyes are blinded by the scarce pale light of dawn spilling into the house. I throw a hand up to shade my face, as I spot the two figures lurking at the front door, responsible for the apparitions.

At my side I feel Jak stirring. I reach out an absent hand and pet his hair off of his sweaty forehead. He should sleep longer. They all should sleep longer. They all _should_ be in bed.

Of course, she isn't though. I watch with dull eyes as she leans over and kisses the boy. I wait patiently as they mutter sweet nothings to each other, until her fingers untwist themselves from his shirt and he's free to go. I sigh when she stands there for at least five minutes to watch him until he's completely off the street.

She slinks back in, but stops dead in her tracks when she sees me. "Your up early," she whispers.

"Not early enough it seems," I say.

Aven has always been an early riser. I know it's futile to keep her locked up with the rest of the children, within the relative safety of the community home. I've learned the best way to control Aven isn't brute scoldings or to bark orders, but it is to give her a cold shoulder, to turn away from her. That's what I do now. Wounded and sad, she will come to me later today, apologizing and begging for another chance. A opportunity that will in the end not be worth anything.

I tuck myself back into the threadbare blankets, pulling Jak into my chest. At my back, another kid stirs, murmuring in their sleep. My free hand flings out on instinct to pet someone's head or cheek or shoulder. They go calm underneath my fingers.

Aven slips into place next to her twin, and I feel instantly better, the anger toward her not so sharp as it was before she fell into place. It's my worry for her that makes me so harsh. I have a hard enough time keeping track of her twin brother at school, where he gets into fights, and Felecia, a five year old vulnerable to predators, than keeping track of her at all hours of the night.

Though I refrain from getting up until the sun is completely dawned, I don't sleep in that time. I find I can't. Now that my mind is awake all my thoughts are running, catching up for the day, worrying. Today is reaping day. A day where I must add losing a kid onto my list of bad things that could happen.

In my head I count all of the ones that are eligible, fear for them, and pray for the odds to be in their favors.

Sunlight illuminates our front door, a crude cut rectangle with a ragged curtain hanging over it. I pull myself from my makeshift bed of warm bodies and straw and blankets, easily moving from our sleeping corner of the room to the kitchen corner. I make breakfast with what little we have, careful to tip-toe and not fumble. If I'm not careful I might drop something and pay dearly for it.

I have an anxious eye always glued on the third corner of the house where a dirty mattress sits, a snoring, shuddering shape laying hidden beneath blankets there. And good thing I do, because for such an aged woman she moves pretty quick when she's worked up. Anger is the only thing that draws her from her liquor reeking recluse. And anger is easily summoned.

Aven is the first up, eating her breakfast, and she drags along her twin brother, who is still half asleep by the time he sits heavily at the table. Bud spares me a half smile when I push a glass of water toward him. It always amazes me how much alike the two look. Dark hair, copper skin, long-limbed and skinny. They even have the same honey-brown eyes.

I leave them at the table to wake the others; a seven year old named Arthur, my five year old Felecia, toddler Jak, and a twelve year old Mel. They wake slower than the thirteen year old twins, with my hands caressing their cheeks or an arm aiding them to sit up. I pick Jak up last, preferring to keep him as close to me as I can. Marcus, my older brother, once told me babies need lots of love and warmth and nurturing. He said that's how he saved me when our parents died. And Jak isn't the first baby I've used this technique on; Felecia has turned out impossibly sweet with a similar method.

Breakfast is a silent and quick ordeal. The loud snores keep the children careful in every breath they take. No one speaks out, no one dares to chew too loudly and Mel, our little klutz, fights hard not to spill her water. I can still see the welts that cover her collarbones from that time she had just last week. I had a few of my own red marks on my forearms from when I had swooped forward–minutes too late–and took the blame.

Once breakfast is done, Bud helps me clear the table. "No work," he intones when he passes me the glasses. His voice is carefully level, nonchalant. But his eyes are asking me for freedom.

"It's a holiday," I say, "Go find something to celebrate." _Everyone knows the reapings aren't worth such a thing. _And he needs no more encouraging. Bud pulls on a worn jacket that he's had since he was eleven, kisses my cheek, hugs Aven, and is gone.

Together Aven and I wash the kids, and dress them in the finest clothes we have for events such as reaping day. Aven, Mel and I get skirts, with wrinkled, slightly torn blouses. Felecia gets a dress, somewhat too small for her, with tenured mud stains along the hem. Arthur and Jak aren't changed from their normal attire.

All in all by the time nine o'clock comes around, we're once more piled together across the piece of floor that serves as our bed. Jak pulls at the end of my ponytail, twisting the ashy locks around his tiny fingers. Aven is whispering with Felicia, and Mel is hiding a smile behind her hand. Shy, cooty-prone Arthur sits in his own hunch, playing some imaginary game with two pieces of straw. I stall for a few minutes, enjoying their company.

When I finally rise to my feet, Aven lifts her head to meet my gaze, knowingly.

"I'll be back," I tell her.

"You always are," says Aven.

Silently, the deal is transacted. I can no longer be upset with her for being out all night, because I'm leaving now, while she remains behind to take her shift. The little sketches of orange, that serve as Jak's eyebrows, furrow together, upset roiling inside of his wide blue eyes as I move toward the door. Thankfully, Mel distracts him with a quiet word before he can wake our monster of a caretaker.

Outside a fine mist falls. I wrap my arms around myself as I hurry down the street, hugging close to the one roomed houses the linger so far on the outer edge of District 8. Within the heart of the district are tenant buildings, staked on top of each other, but those are for the people who can afford them. People like me, even within a community home, do not get such a luxury.

Usually this place would be crawling with people coming and going to the factories to clock in a few hours or to school. Today the place is silent, and empty except for a far off group of Peacekeepers who sit at the corner of this street where it diverges into the next one. They watch me with eyes burning holes into my back as I slip along bland sidewalks, toward an alley between a house and another.

The day is gloomy. Clouds intermix overhead with the constant underlying smog, blanketing the sun in silver. The world is gloomy. The District is an ugly, sickly place, reeking of fumes, lacking in color and greenery. District 8 is just concrete buildings, paved travel ways and dark alleys between the factories and houses.

I slow my pace when I come across a house that seems promising. I wait outside the door, listening, hear nothing and slip inside. A woman sleeps on a dirty mattress, copper skinned and tangled black curls pillowing her head. I pull a jacket from the back of a chair. It's soft and brown and only slightly worn. I put it around my shoulders.

From the cupboard I take two matches, a pack of preserved and dried beef sticks, and two mint leaves to pop into my mouth. On the floor lies a messy array of stuff. There's a backpack. I stoop to shift through it and find nothing of worth.. only the bag. I dump out her things carefully, put all the things I took into the empty sack and get out of there.

I'm three streets away before I find another house that is still slumbering. Reaping day is the best day for this because everyone usually tries to sleep in, since the reaping isn't until two. Part of me knows it's wrong. To steal from people who are just as in wanting as myself. To potentially harm another person by taking away their goods or food or clothing. But I remember what my brother taught me.

Every time I think of Marcus all I can see is his corpse in town square, laying in a pool of scarlet. A bullet in his forehead, as his punishment for stealing. Panem does not joke around when it comes to the laws. Stealing is punishable by death. I had been on a few jobs with my brother before. He taught me the basics. Only take what you need. If there is a lot of something, leave some. Never, ever take from a family with children. After the day he was killed for it the very thought of stealing terrified me. He was gone and I didn't have the courage to steal, and I watched slowly as the other orphans around me starved from neglect, ignored by the Justice Building and our community home caretaker.

I shudder at the memory of those awful days after his execution. And I harden myself to my fear.

The third house I hit is a family. I stall at the sight of a little boy sandwiched between his parents on their bed. With nimble feet I retreat to the outside and find another house. An old man slumbers in this one. From him I get a fist sized sack of dried and preserved plums.

By the time I reach the fifteenth house I decide I have enough to keep my family alive another week, if we eat sparingly. I'm packing everything into the sack as I walk away from my most recent victim, when I hear a distant, "Hey, you!"

I break into a run at the sound of the voice. I don't turn to see who. They may not even have meant me. All I know is that getting caught isn't an option. Without me the community home would never survive. Our caretaker would let all my children die. Aven and Bud wouldn't be able to handle it.

I lose whoever it was easily by diving from alley to alley, making a split decision to take the long way around to the community home. Whenever I come across a corner crowded with three or four Peacekeepers I force myself into a walk, hissing air through my teeth to keep my chest from rising and falling rapidly and betraying to them my urgency.

I'm home free when I spot the house. I've been gone maybe two hours. The mist that had been falling has lightened some by now. Essentially I had taken the jacket from that woman for fear of rain, but now it seems heavy on my back. She was a skinny young woman with thin skin. She would freeze in this weather.. _but Felecia would freeze more, _I tell myself severely.

As soon as I enter the concrete hut called home, I pull the jacket from my shoulders and summon Felecia and Arthur to me with the flick of my hand. I lower myself to their heights, meeting both their brown eyes and tell them in a low voice to share it and keep it safe, as I wrap the jacket around both of them. They nod and stumble away, staggering against each others gaits.

Aven smiles at me, at the sight of the two. I take Jak from her. "Anything good?" she whispers.

I toss the purloined backpack of stolen goods on the kitchen table. "Only the things we need."

There's nothing for us to do now except wait until two. After awhile I allow Aven to leave like Bud had and she offers to take Mel with her. I hesitate. "I'll watch her, I promise," says Aven.

"Please, please, please," begs Mel. Her sweet green eyes yearning to be away.

I end up letting them go. Marcus gave me freedom when I was young and I bettered from it. I learned the streets and which Peacekeepers were more likely to hit you for no reason at all. It taught me to be careful with my words, because you never know who's listening. In school and in the weaving factory where I work I make a point of keeping my face void of emotion. I trust my work partner, to an extent, though he's two years my senior and much out of both my social and economical reach. At one point in my life, I might have been baited into marrying him, for it is not uncommon for work partners to marry, but that was only if my parents were still alive. Now, even though I have the golden skin and blonde hair of a merchant class daughter, I'm no better than the lowly considered copper skinned and dark haired class.

At one o'clock I decide it's time to make our way to town square. It's a considerably long walk, so I straddle Jak onto a hip and clutch one of Felecia's hand. Arthur stumbles along on her other side. Out of all my children, only Jak and I have light quality looks. I don't know where he came from, other than one day our caretaker brought how a scrawling infant and I somehow ended up holding him.. watching over him.. adoring him. Marcus had strawberry blonde hair and Jak has ginger hair, so when I was younger I would call him my brother, but I know Jak isn't my relative in any way. No more than straight black haired, freckled Felecia is, or curly headed dark-featured Arthur.

As we walk the mist accumulates again, despite by now the heat of the day should be at its peak. I coddle Jack closer to my chest, pressing his face into my dirty shirt with the slight hope that it would filter the polluted oxygen that entered his tiny lungs and it might mange to warm up his pink nose. The jacket will have to keep the two others.

Once we reach the square I find a place where I can sign in. I'm directed toward the roped off area for fifteen year olds, but I wait a few minutes before taking my place. I slink off to the perimeter of the large square, where the families stand and twist around in search of someone.

Others filter in from all around. Town square isn't big enough to hold all the population so most stick to the streets to watch the reaping on television screens. Children however must come to the heart of it all, where you stand and look up at the Justice Building, folding out of the front doors a stage with two glass reaping balls. Some of the people milling about I recognize from school and work. On the rooftops I see cameras, and even more on the ground.

"Keera!" I turn at the sound of my name. I had been expecting someone else, but when I see Bracken Weeber running toward me I force myself to smile.

"Bracken," I say as he stands before me, broad chest puffing to catch his breath. He is grinning. He's always grinning. Bracken always seems happy, ever since the moment we became work partners four years ago. Today is no different, despite the gloominess I feel clinging to the air and the faces of the children that ghost passed us.

"I wanted to wish you luck," he says.

Jak lifts his head from my neck to examine this new person. Truthfully, I don't let work and home intermix. Bracken has never officially met any of my orphans. He may have caught glimpses of me with them here and there, but he wouldn't know their names. I don't know much about him either. I know he has a little brother. I know he has blue eyes and reddish-bronze hair. He's seventeen, but is so well-fed and groomed he could be older. I also know that girls from school like him for his loud, laid back personality. Most of them would kill for my spot as his work partner, to have the chance to be with him for hours a day, weaving. Those hours are usually spent in silence, though. It's sad, because the facts I do know about him most people could have gathered by just one look.

Friends, isn't really what I'd call us. More of acquaintances on official and professional terms. I'm confused as to why he would seek me out. Let alone wish me luck. He's never wished me luck before. Maybe he just spotted me and is trying to be kind. "You, too," I say, awkwardly.

"Thanks." His eyes are on the two little ones who huddle under the same coat. Arthur stares at his toes determinedly, cheeks red. Felecia grins at him with missing front teeth. Bracken seems to think about something, pressing his perfectly bowed lips together momentarily, then swings his face up to mine. "Wanna introduce me to your little friend?" He nods to Jak.

Instantly a possessiveness grips me. My arm around Jak tightens its grip. I don't like it when people think about my orphans, but then I realize how childish that thought is. I nod stiffly to Bracken. "This is.. Jak." I motion to the other two. "Felecia and Arthur."

"There are more, aren't there?" asks Bracken, tilting his head slightly.

"A few." I turn to the other kids and motion toward my work partner. "This is... Bracken," I tell them.

He is already grinning at Jak. "Hey, little buddy." Jak's face instantly brightens. He loves being talked to. It doesn't happen often. "Hmm..." Bracken looks at my face a moment, amusement in his eyes, and then he addresses the toddler, "What's your favorite color?"

I raise an eyebrow. I could not decide what Bracken was getting at. Jak was too young to talk. He wouldn't answer. Why carry on a conversation with a toddler? More importantly, why was he even here? Jak seems similarly confused, but interested, cocking his head a little, no doubt copying Bracken in the first place. Bracken withdraws something from his coat pocket and displays the objects out on his palm. "Can you choose one? Your favorite one, okay?"

Jak gives a quiet squeal of delight. I don't say anything. I just watch the exchange with void.

"We have purple, green.. and orange," says Bracken. Opening his fist, he picks up one of three little, threaded hand-made bracelets. They're similar to the weaves we make at work together. Hours of our hands brushing together or sides as we worked around looms. Except theses ones are dyed in precious colors that I could never dream of affording.

Jak reaches for one. The orange one. Bracken laughs at his eagerness. Felecia is stirred to jealousy. "Can I have one?" she whispers.

I start to shake my head. I don't need to deprive Bracken of all his things. Already allowing Jak to take one seems like a mistake. But before I can speak aloud against her Bracken finishes tying the orange bracelet around Jak's wrist and crouches down to Felecia's height. "Sure you can," Bracken tells her, tugging on the end of her nose.

She grins toothlessly up at him and she chooses the purple one. I make a real effort to smile at Bracken when he is standing again. "You didn't have to do that," I say.

He shrugs. "I wanted to."

It's an awkward moment then. I feel like I should turn my eyes away, but every time I do I feel I should look back at him. I want to give him something back, but I can't. Not without stealing something worth giving. Maybe he would know. He could turn me in. Ruin everything. I tighten my facial muscles and make sure I'm unreadable. The little girl at my side is glowing. Jak is content. Arthur fawns over the purple bracelet his community home sister just got.

All is quiet for one moment too long, until Arthur murmurs, scarcely audible, "Is this Cayleb?"

The little boy pinkens in the face when I swing my head around to stare at him. "This is Bracken," I say, "I already said that. Cayleb isn't–"

"Who's Cayleb?" Bracken cuts in.

I can't help reddening in the face. Unlike Arthur it is more from anger than embarrassment. "No one."

Surprise colors Bracken's face. I've never snapped at him. He quickly buries this however and shrugs, nonchalant. "Okay. Look, I think I should go look for my brother, he's probably terrified. Today's his first reaping." He's gone before I can say a goodbye.

I turn on the kids once I'm sure he's out of earshot. "What did I tell you about Cayleb?" I ask them. My voice is tight, but soft and anguished with upset. They could have gotten me in trouble. They could have gotten _Cayleb_ in trouble, and somehow that seems worse.

Arthur scuttles his feet against the paving stones in embarrassment. Felecia on the other hand lifts her head to me and meets my gaze with proud and obedient eyes. "I remembered!" she exclaims. "I remember you said never to talk about him. I didn't."

"Yes," I reply, sighing. "Never. Even if you think someone is him. Okay?" Felecia nods. "Arthur?" He bobs his head glumly. He's crying. I move to him, lowering myself onto my knees and I hug him. "I'm not mad," I tell him. "I'm just worried. You scared me. Bracken is from a richer family than ours. He has things he can lose if he does something wrong. He might turn me into the Peacekeepers if he knows too much. You understand?"

"He's.." Arthur struggles with his words. "He's a bad guy?"

"No, no." I swipe the tears from his cheeks. "He's good. It's just sometimes people get scared and when people are scared they do things that they might not usually do to others. Like turn me in."

Arthur burst into new tears. "He's going to turn you in?" he asks in distress. "I-I didn't know. I didn't mean to.."

"_No_." I clutch him closer to my chest, that aches at his words. His guilt at the thought he got me in trouble. "It's okay. It was a mistake. I'm not going anywhere. No one is turning me in." _Not today._

Once he's settled, I pull the jacket more firmly around him and Felecia. I take their hands again and by now the person I had been looking for emerges from an alley nearby. Caretaker Ethel stumbles over to me, limping and leaning against her cane. I quickly set Jak onto my other hip, pushing the two others behind my back.

Ethel is bristling with annoyance as she approaches and her short, graying hair is splattered against her forehead from the rain. She is wet, upset and I instantly tense when she grabs me roughly by the upper arm, for both support and showing her disquiet. "What are you kids doing out all alone? You disgusting little mongrels, I did not give you permission to do that. If you are going to look like a couple of riff-rafts then you will–"

"Of course, Ethel. We didn't mean harm," I tell her. She's two inches taller than me. Though I remember she used to fear my older brother when he lived with us, now that he is gone there's no one to stop her. At these moments, no matter how old I like to think myself, I want to cry for him.

With a hand she roughly grabs me under the chin. She turns my face this way and then the other. She scrutinizes me. "You're filthy. Don't you ever wash?" Ethel drops my face and slaps her cane against one of my shins. "Straighten up."

Ethel insults and criticizes me like always. She does this to everyone she could get her hands on and I've grown used to it. I know I should stay silent, as the children behind me and straddled on my side, make to being meek, their eyes downcast. But a spark of indignation inside my chest spurs my mouth to open. "Of course, Ethel." I am agreeing with her, but she hears the taunting tone of voice underneath.

She sneers her wrinkled lips, and reveals brown teeth underneath. With a sharp slap across my face, she degrades me further, shutting me up completely. "Don't use that tone with me," the woman barks.

Thankfully, she's so tired from her walk and from the rain she doesn't do much else then scoff, snatch the coat from Felecia and Arthur and wrap it around herself, then take Jak from my arms. "Get going, then. If I'm lucky maybe I'll have one less mouth to feed this year."

I'm not hurt by her words, only worried. Mel. Aven. Bud. Where are they? As I make my way to stand in a gaggle of fifteen year olds, I stare at the spot where Ethel places herself and the kids. I wish I could be over there instead of here. I want to be home, laying in the straw, getting out of the rain, coddling Jak or playing games with Mel. Instead, I am forced to be here, shivering when a wind whips across the square.

On the reaping stage I see our mayor approach the podium. He begins the usual speech. Behind him on the stage sits our Capitol escort, Nissa Tiller, with aqua tattoos across her face and pale purple hair. Next to her is old, wheezing Woof. Cecelia sits stiff and tall in her chair. It's strange seeing her there. Last year she was on maternity leave. That had been a bad experience, with only Woof there to coach the hopeless tributes of 8. Now that she's back I feel a little better about the next child that will be sent off to die.

I look back to where Ethel stands. Felecia and Arthur are shaking from the cold. A deep, startling surge of hatred runs through me. I didn't risk my life to steal the jacket for Ethel. I got it for them. And now they're just left there to stand, ignored.

The rain has picked up some, prattling lightly against the paving stones and surrounding buildings. They're all going to get sick in this weather. They'll get those awful coughs. I'll be unable to pay a doctors or healer to take care of them. I fret to myself to the brink of these worries eating at the lining of my stomach. It only worsens when Jack begins to fuss in Ethel's arms. She tries to hold him straight, but his knees collide with her ribs and his hands swat at her face as he squirms. Ethel viciously grabs his ginger curls and twists. He falls still, head coiled to the side.

My heart is pounding furiously. I can't wait for this reaping to be over so I can rush to him and take him from her. Smother his face with kisses. Find another jacket to wrap around the others. I am so consumed with my furiousness and pain, that I don't hear the Capitol accented voice coming out of the speakers. It's distorted. Until I focus and hear the repeat, "Aven Monte."

I whip my head around to stare up at the stage. I can't believe what I just heard. How? She only had three slips of thousands. I'm in there eight times as much as her for the tessera I take out. For one heartbeat I watch Aven walk toward the stage. There is upset in her honey-brown eyes. It reminds me of the way she looks when she comes to me to apologize, to beg for another chance. When she seeks me out for the love her mother failed to give her when her mother, the owner of the floral shop, freely gave up the twins to the community home, only because she did not want to keep the children of a man she had not married.

Bud is pushing through the boys of thirteen year old to get to Aven. He just touches her shoulder when Peacekeepers rush forward to pull him back. I don't move. I just stare. I could volunteer. I could save Aven. But what about the others? If I leave them they are lost without me.

I think of my brother. I think of how I felt when he went with the Peacekeepers and stood strong when they held the gun against his forehead. I remember the betrayal I felt. The way he just accepted defeat and ran into death's arms. Leaving me. Leaving me with all the children.

The same children that he protected by taking a bullet for them. He stole just to keep them alive. His crime was for their behalf more than his own. If he wanted he could have gone to the Justice Building where he would have been assigned a proper job within the factories. He was excellent at engineering the complex machinery. Marcus could have rented a nice tenant room. Could have gotten married to a sweet work partner, with golden skin and sandy hair. But he didn't. He died for his kids. For me.

I push my way to the front before I draw in my next breath. I shove passed a Peacekeeper who tries to get in my way. "Aven!" I cry. She turns, shocked. Relief floods her eyes with tears and she throws herself at me in an embrace. No matter how hard the Peacekeepers try to pry us apart, I don't lose my grip on her, before I shout, "I volunteer! I volunteer for her."

They stop pulling at my shoulders and turn to look at the stage. The Capitol escort eyes us with interest. The mayor looks a bit uncertain. Cecelia is the one who shrugs and mutters something I don't catch. All I know is that the Peacekeeper closest to me is pushing me toward the stage.

I take my place, each breath rattling inside my chest. In front of me people spread out across the square. There's so many people. I don't think I've ever stood underneath the gaze of so many eyes. Not to mention the cameras that are recording this to all of Panem.

"What is your name?" Nissa Tiller asks me. She has peculiar orange eyes that penetrate my face. Another pair of eyes. Devouring my appearance, my emotions that I might let slip.

"Keera Indelif." My voice shake, with what I'm feeling, but which? Terror? Anxiety? Sadness?

"Well, then, there you have it." Nissa turns back to the microphone and announces my name officially. I watch as Bud drags Aven away. They join Ethel at the edge of the square. Felecia is sobbing and Arthur is confused. Jak is red in the face, by the cold or by Ethel's hands I don't know and it hurts not to.

"Time for the boys!" Nissa Tiller trills softly. Her voice is strangely demure compared to other district escorts. For instance, the Capitol escort assigned to District Twelve, there's something so impossibly niggling about her voice that she makes me want to rip my own ears off.

Nissa takes her time walking to the glass reaping ball containing thousands of slips of paper. Briefly I let myself wonder who will join me in death. It is so rare for District 8 to have winners, that I do not even linger on the hope of winning. I knew the instant I volunteered for Aven I was making a sacrifice.

Nissa returns to the podiums with a fresh slip in hand. I don't feel any worry as to who it might be at first. It couldn't be Bud. The odds weren't that hateful toward me. Then an unbidden fear grips me like ice. _Cayleb? _What if..

"Erik Weeber."

I just want to cry at the sight of Bracken's little brother being forced to the stage by Peacekeepers. Wide blue eyes tearing up, his twelve year old face reminds me of all my children. A head of reddish-bronze hair wet with rain, shaking with his whole body as Nissa speaks to him. His tiny hand slipping into mine is as fragile as Jak's, and the boy's gaze is petrified as he looks up at me. As if I'm going to kill him, here and now. As if I were capable of killing children. But I know I'm not. I couldn't raise a hand to strike someone without thinking of Ethel and wanting to cry in both disgust and memory. Not even if it's an eighteen year old brute Career out for my blood.

I don't even care when were taken into custody, escorted to fancy and neat rooms within the Justice Building. We have one hour for goodbyes. I try to keep all my pieces together until I'm hidden from the cameras. Once I am I stand in the middle of the room, facing the door. Waiting.

When the door opens, I throw myself at the figure slipping through, arms wrapping about his neck, losing control over the sobs that force themselves out of my chest. He clutches me in return, rocking me, running his hands up and down my back. "I'm so sorry, Keera."

"Can't you do something?" I say, low and desperate in his ear. "You always do something! Cayleb, please. I can't leave them. They need me. Aven.. she needed me..."

Cayleb lets out a distressed sound that rises from the back of his throat. He pulls away just enough so I can see his pale face. His hazel eyes are wild. I already know he's let everything he could possibly do run through his head, and there's nothing. Of all the times I have turned to him for help, of the times he gave me free passes to avoid the whipping post, saved my life from the bullet or the necklace of rope for execution, there is absolutely nothing he can do to outmaneuver the Hunger Games.

There is only so much power a Peacekeeper has.

"I'm so sorry, Keera," he repeats, before pulling away, his white uniform crinkled where my fingernails clawed at him. "So sorry.." he turns to the door and opens it, and almost instantly his distress is gone, hidden beneath a mask. "You have ten minutes," Cayleb says professionally to Aven and Bud who stand outside. They rush passed him, oblivious, throwing their arms around me. I stumble under their weight, my eyes straining to see over the tops of their heads as Cayleb steps beyond the doorway, gaze locked in mine.

The door closes before I have the chance to say anything more to my best friend.


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: Thank you to those who like this story. Thank you for reading. For any support you can give. -Taryn(:

* * *

Chapter Two

When I first met Cayleb Cradance I was twelve and he was a new recruit, only sixteen years old. He had come from District Two and he looked like any other Peacekeeper new to District 8; disgusted, disgruntled, and watery eyed.

As always, I was weary of any and every Peacekeeper. Marcus had taught me from a very young age that some law enforcements enjoyed abusing their power. He told me that this was the reason we didn't have a mom. Peacekeepers attacked her once and she came away missing a vital piece of herself, and she gained another, because nine months after their attack, I was born.

With that memory always in mind, I ran from Cayleb the first time he tried to talk to me. The second time I tried the same evasive maneuver. I was worried he'd attempt to punish me for running away for the first time. Ignoring a Peacekeeper might just make them turn into a bad guy. However, this Peacekeeper wasn't upset with me, he was bemused. He inquired after the baby I had in my arms, a mere infant, and asked where his mother was. I told him I was the mom, tilting my stubborn chin only as a twelve year old would. Cayleb was appalled. And he gave me _money_.

It was pity money. But money was money.

Now, I can't help and wonder if there's even enough money in the world to get a tribute out of the Hunger Games.

As I walk from the Justice Building, having just finished tearful goodbyes with Aven, Bud, and, surprisingly, unexpectedly, Bracken, I am a mess in both body and mind. My face is blotchy and my ponytail askew. My thoughts are scattered in a hundred different directions. The past consumes my heart with pain, memories of Jak and my children, of Cayleb, of my brother, and even of quiet evenings with Bracken, torment me. I have to let go. Accept the inevitable slaughter. Images of the future haunt my mind on the car ride to the train station. All I can see are the past Hunger Games in the forefront of my mind, one District 8 tribute slashed down after another. A sword to the belly. Knife to the throat. Arrow to the heart. Club to the chest. Which one would be my fate? Which horrific scene would my children have to witness?

By the time Erik and I are forced to stand at the train door, to pose for reporters, I'm resolved to die in the least eventful way possible. I'll be so dull and boring, the Capitol will not even want to tape my death.

Inside the train it is magnificent. Outside the train is moving easily at two hundred and fifty miles. Enough to knock me breathless as I gaze out at the rain. The glass of the window is so clean I can see my reflection in it. Briefly, I raise a hand and press it against my left cheek. Right over the spot Bracken had wordlessly kissed before the Peacekeepers came to remove him. No words passed between us during out visitation time. Only the usual silence, and then that unexpected kiss. Why? Was he feeling guilty because of the years we spent as work partners and he never bothered to get to know me? Was it for his brother? Is he worried I might hurt Erik? Hoping I'll protect him?

I turn away from the window before I can over-think it.

I'm already slightly wounded by the fact that Cayleb did not reenter the room for a real goodbye. For three years he has alternatively been keeping me alive, and with me, my family. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have been alive to take Aven's place at this reaping. At one point during the second year we knew each other, I recall that he offered to give me a little money every month from his paycheck, but it wouldn't be enough. Besides it was too distrustful. I couldn't count on him for such a thing. I told him I'd get by. That was the day before he caught me red handed for the first time with someone else's stuff.

One time he tried promoting a better program for the community home in hopes to end my criminal hobby. A new caretaker. More money. We got more money, since Cayleb had good friends, but that didn't matter any. Not when all of it went to supplying Ethel with liquor. He offered to kill her for me. I thought he was serious. I was too scared of him to talk to him for a month after that. When I did see him again, he caught me sneaking around the inside of a house that was not mine. It's always him who catches me. Cayleb will stare at me with his bright hazel eyes, narrow them, and sigh. He'll take what I took, replace it, escort me to my house and give me all the money he has on him, even if I refuse it.

Three months ago, before this reaping day, Cayleb played as a witness for my innocence when I stood accused of stealing. He was the reason I wasn't strung up by rope or pushed to my knees with a gun pressed into my face. I never asked him to do it. We never discussed it. He simply felt obliged to help the impulsive girl with skinny arms, unruly hair, and too many kids to take care of on her own.

Wounded, is another word for anger. I wish he'd come to visit me so I could tell him that I am willing to accept his offer from so long ago. Except he needs to give the money to the girl that was originally reaped. Aven Monte. I'd tell Cayleb that she's now the one to watch as he's watched over me. But somehow I know that won't work. This wasn't something that just passed down to the next unfortunate soul in charge of the community home. At some point in the past three years what he did for me turned from a grudging obligation to a hand extended in friendship. A mutual liking for each other, supported weakly by his annoyance of my insistent law breaking and my tolerance of his origin.

_So why didn't he visit me to say goodbye? _It shouldn't bug me so much. I should be more upset Ethel refused to let Aven bring Jak to me. Ethel sent a message with the twins that clearly said, _good riddance, _while at the same time denying me a last touch of my children's faces.

Nissa informs me dinner is in an hour and everything within the train is at my disposal. And that turns out to be a lot. Each of us is given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. We don't have hot water at home, and usually the running tap is dirty water. There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Nissa tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want.. it's almost overwhelming.

I dig through the drawers a bit. I consider changing when I find a shirt that is made of silk. I clutch it to a cheek momentarily. Then I recall what Felecia was wearing today. She had on that dress with the rip underneath her left arm, covered in mud that would not be scrubbed out no matter how hard I tried. Disgust and guilt bubbled in my stomach at the thought of them tonight, cold, at the mercy of Ethel as I'm not there to take the blows for them.

I show up to dinner in the same state I had been an hour ago. I'm still damp from the rain, which makes Nissa scowl, but Cecelia is already seated at the dining table and motions me over to sit at her side. "Did you know I have three kids?" she asks me. I nod. "And they're _all_ boys. Sometimes I wish I'd have a baby girl so I had someone's hair to do." I stare at her, uncertain. Cecelia sighs. "Turn around, child, and let me help you with that mess."

I oblige her request and her swift fingers go straight for the rubber band keeping my hair together. She smoothes out the knots and gnarls with her hands then pulls it all to the top of my head in a bun. It's so much nicer held out of my face.

"Better?" she asks.

"Yes."

Erik has arrived in the time it took for Cecelia to make me semi presentable. He has changed and showered, judging by his wet hair. Nissa likes him better for that. She invites him warmly to sit in the seat between her and Woof, across from Cecelia and I. The courses begin to arrive after that, so there isn't much room for talking, between slurping down one type of food to the next. Rich morsels and delicacies arrive and depart at such fast rates my stomach cannot keep up with them. I favor the thick strawberry flavored drink, that Nissa keeps ordering to be refilled once it's empty. I don't have the strength to tell her to stop doing it, even though my stomach is close to bursting.

Sitting next to Cecelia I get to have the first good look of her in all my life. She's shorter than I thought her to be. Her face and arms are still rounded out slightly by her most recent child, and the freckles that dance across her shoulders and lightly kiss her cheekbones, remind me of Felecia's beauty. Her skin is more olive than copper, though, a strange mix of gold and copper, I suppose, like some people. I can remember her Hunger Games, vaguely, from re-runs. The only thing that jumps out in my mind is that image of Cecelia opening her hand to another female tribute who took it without hesitate, before an axe buried itself into her head.

Nevertheless, she won, somehow. Woof, too, though that was many years ago. So long ago I don't recall any re-runs. They're both my mentors now. My lifelines, however worthless my life is as of this moment. I'm not unsettled by the thought that these two people control my sponsor money, I'm sad because I know I _won't_ have any sponsor money, and I don't want to be another lost tribute added to their list of failures.

Dessert comes around and Erik turns out to have a passion for white chocolate. Nissa admonishes him for licking his fingers and Cecelia chuckles goodheartedly, thumping Woof on the shoulder to get him to join in. Woof glances at her, startled, as if worried she's some hostile, then wheezes slightly. I can't tell if it was a genuine laugh no more than I can tell if Cecelia's was.

After dinner we all pile into another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. This is our chance to get our first look at the competition. In my case, all my potential murderers. One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called, the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. I try to remember some, but predictably only a few really stick. A sleek boy who fluidly steps forward to volunteer from District 1. A girl from District 3 that walks twitchy, like a bug. A boy from District 7 with a hulking figure and a brooding face. Then there is us. Aven gets called. Bud jumps out to reach her, then I fly out of the crowd and volunteer. The commentators ponder why I'd done it, seeing as I don't seem to be their sibling. I wish I could tell them I'm their mother, in all the aspects that matter. They move on, and the rest of the tributes don't strike out to me enough to remember them before the anthem is playing and the Capitol seal appears on the screen.

Nissa is commenting on how much she thought the girl from District 5 should have waxed her upper lip. I want to laugh at the way Erik glances at her out the corner of his eyes, as if fearing for her sanity. It makes me think of Arthur. Sweet, awkward, Arthur. If this were Arthur, and I was going in the Games with him, what lengths would I throw myself into to protect him? _Each and every one_, I think, closing my eyes, unable to look at Erik.

It's not just the things Erik does that makes me pained. He has a childish air around him that makes me think of Felecia, too. Or Aven who really does late night rendezvous with boys, just because it makes her feels wanted and radiant. Bud, who has the most awkward cowlick in the world. Bracken is loud and laid back, where his little brother is timid and shy. Frightened by the mere beat of a butterfly's wings. Just as clueless as myself to the things of nature, let alone of combat..

A hand on my shoulder brings me back from my recluse. I open my eyes and Cecelia tells me to go to bed. I don't question it. She has the voice of a true mother. Diligent, yet firm. I half jog to my compartment, snapping the door shut behind me. I want to cry again. But the tears won't come, so I strip off my clothes and slip into the bed, mind consumed with my children. Maybe sleep would help settle me, so I can start thinking clearly.

With an instinctive hand I reach across the mattress to find only empty sheets, struck with a sudden loneliness in my heart. The children aren't here to warm my sides. Here for me to count their breaths as they sleep. The chance to listen to Aven sneak out, or watch her as she sneaks back in, gone. No Felecia to knead her hands into my side or Jak to snore against my chest.

I curl up in a ball. It feels strange sleeping on such a soft surface. To sleep with such a full stomach and a warm blanket. Without anyone else in the bed with me. I've never slept alone before. Ever since I was an infant I lived in the community home, my mother died in childbirth and my father killed himself at her loss, so I had only ever known the life of an orphan, huddled in straw, surrounded by other warm bodies.

Now, everything is changing so fast. My life is speeding passed, and I don't think I can keep up.


	3. Chapter Three

A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews. Especially, the one with a whole lot of advice. I took it all to heart and tried to heal all the sore wounds from chapter one in this chapter. -Taryn(:

* * *

Chapter Three

After hours of tossing and turning, I decide it's not worth my time to feign sleep. I climb out of bed and take a shower. I've never had one before and I would call it more of an attempt at a shower. There are too many buttons and settings for me even to figure out what I want.

I decide it's time to change, too. I find a long sleeved black shirt and a pair of jeans. They're made of denim, a fabric I've never owned before, but my father used to work in a factory for denim. I can't help passing my palms over my thighs every time I get nervous. Which happens more than it should as I make my way down the train toward the compartment we had dinner in just this past night. I can't help but notice how odd it is to have my toes threading through silky pieces of carpet.

The smell of cinnamon draws me toward a table filled with endless amounts of food. Without even asking one of the Capitol attendants standing to the side I grab a handful of everything. Eggs, strange squishy flat looking pieces of bread, flavored rolls.. everything that makes my mouth water.

I only pause in devouring such foods as Cecelia slips into the compartment. She smiles at the sight of me up so early. "Save some for the rest of us," she says, grabbing herself only a cup of dark liquid and sitting at my side.

I nod merely because I'm compelled to listen to her. She is my mentor, though I have a feeling it's more for my respect of her than anything else. I realize I admire her in a whole bunch of aspects. The fact that she has kids sways me to trust her. Her refusal to become just another one of the broken, substance-addicted Victors from everywhere else. To be brave enough to have kids knowing they are at a higher risk to be reaped because they are merely her children.

Cecelia tells me that I'll be submitted to a prep team and a stylist once we reach the Capitol. He'll make me pretty, she assures me. But I don't feel like being pretty will make me feel better about anything. I wonder what he'll put me in. It has to be an outfit that reflects District 8, and I know in the past most of us were put in ridiculous, brightly colored suits of randomly sewn together textiles; a mixture of fleece, paisley, denim, silk, etcetera. I ponder over this the entire time it takes for Erik, Woof, and Nissa to arrive.

Since I'm already done I take to absently watching Erik as he scarves down his breakfast. Nissa orders me some more of that strawberry drink, that she calls strawberry milk. Just as I'm taking a sip I see Erik's hand shoot out to grab his drink and my heart twists at the sight of a green, woven bracelet tied around his wrist. Just like the two other ones Bracken had given to Felecia and Jak.

At the sight of it, I'm thinking about my children. I wonder what they are doing now. Who made breakfast? Did Aven sneak out last night? Will Bud stay with her and them today, because he knows I want him to.. need him to? Would they dare turn to Ethel for help or are they trying to make good use of what I stole for them? It'll only last a week. What then? What will they do after they run out of supplies? I don't even want to imagine Aven trying to steal. It makes me angry. At myself, for not having thought about this beforehand. There should have been a plan. An agreement, or arrangement that would come into call if the Hunger Games ever did interfere with our lives.

One meager deal with Cayleb could mean Jak's well being, or Aven's safety. All the words I said to Aven and Bud at our visitation come back to me. I told them to take care of them, take the blows no matter how much it hurts them or me to tell them so, and I also told Aven not to steal. If she were caught and lost, then Bud, then what? Nothing.

I know my anger is pointless. Even if there was a predisposed plan to go along with the possibility one of the three eligible children got reaped and it was okay with them to know I wouldn't step forward and save them, I would have volunteered anyway. If Aven walked toward that stage knowing I couldn't do anything for her, knowing she agreed to such a thing, it wouldn't have helped in the least, or prevented me stepping forward. The plan would only have felt wrong and corrupt to me. I would have felt sick at the thought that I potentially sent one of my kids off to the Hunger Games, thinking I loved the others more than them, or that I favored my life over theirs.

The fact that Erik wears that bracelet only labels him Felecia and Jak's equal. Any thoughts that come forward to cover the fact that it's my life against his, against twenty two others, too, or motivation that tells me that I have to return for Jak and Mel and Aven... all those thoughts are shoved out, because if this were Felecia, and I had to kill her to get back to my other four, wouldn't that just be the same thing as letting Aven go as to stay with my other four in the first place?

Once everyone is finished, Cecelia shares a glance with Nissa and the latter nods. Woof is unincluded in the glance, but Cecelia does place a hand on his shoulder as she begins to address Erik and I. "As you know it's our job as mentors to keep you two alive as long as we can. But it's not as easy as it sounds. These are the Hunger Games, and I'm going to give you my best piece of advice I give every year. Don't go in the arena _confused _or undecided. While your in the Games if there's something you need to question or mull over, let it go. There aren't extra seconds to think over your morals or skills when a Career is running at you full speed. Distractions are lethal. Thoughts are pointless, and useless against knifes," Cecelia makes sure to hold both our stares, with hard and stern eyes, before letting a brief smile touch her face. "So if there's anything on your mind, or some skill you are thinking about, now's the time to speak up."

Erik looks apprehensive all of sudden, about this mentor. He glances around, as if searching for words or an instruction on what to do. Things aren't just fancy trains anymore, things are starting to hint at the coming trouble, and even I feel a bit halted.

Erik shakes his head first. "I don't know anything," says Erik. "Not that will help me."

"Are you prepared to fight?"

Erik's eyebrows push together. "I don't think I can.. I mean, Bracken and I used to wrestle for fun, but I'm not big–"

"You're big enough to tackle a girl. There was that Seam girl from District Twelve, she's fourteen, but she's small enough for you to take down. Boys will know instinctively how to throw you off of them. Surprise them and the girls are your best bet. And for a weapon.. sling-shot will do you fine. No need for strength. Though aim will be needed, at least it's at a sizable distance. Can you run fast?"

I can tell Erik is winded by her talk. He's not had the time, or perhaps mental capacity to consider any of this. That's why even though I'm feeling a bit taken aback by the all business and seriousness of this conversation, I feel a surge of gratitude toward Cecelia, too. We have mentors for this reason, though most of them are usually too unstable to fulfill these needs. In retrospect you know they've been through the Games before. They know what's needed, what they have to prepare us for.

I'm still undecided how exactly to go about the Games, but she's ordering me to figure my motives out before I'm forced to decide at knife point. A decision that will potentially be regretted. I need to know what I'm capable of, my limits, long before I've crossed the invisible line and it's too late to go back.

Erik tells Cecelia he can run just fine and she encourages him to take a few laps during training. To me she says that I'll need to be defensive and stealthy, rather than act as an aggressor, considering my lack of muscle and girth. I debate it over while staring at my plate. "What if.." my voice fails me.

"What if?" she prompts.

"What is your advice on alliances?" I ask, finding boldness in my worry. _What do you think I should do when I see Erik, starving or hurting? What about that girl from Twelve, smaller than Erik? Or any other tribute, big and small, that asks me for help and I'm unable to turn from them?_

Woof stirs at my inquisition. He lifts his squinted eyes to my face and murmurs something to Cecelia that I don't quite understand or catch. She nods. "Both of us advise you against them, any of them. Don't trust Careers. Don't sleep next to anyone who you aren't absolutely prepared to give your life to. And don't.. just don't, make friends. It'll only be worse for both of you."

"_However_," Nissa cuts in for the first time. Her eyes are focused on buttering the piece toast in her hands, but you can hear the clipped tone of her voice. "The choice to make an alliance is completely up to you. Mentors give suggestions, not orders." She's smiling when she meets my gaze, and I see she has implanted jewels in her teeth. I wonder how much she makes a year. "If you were considering one, know that there are also benefits to banding together. I heard last year the statistics for having an alliance was a twenty percent increase to survival!"

Cecelia narrows her eyes at Nissa. "That's a statistic that counts for Careers, not for tributes from District Eight." Before there is a chance of argument, she turns to me, composed and says, "Do what you think you can bare to do. That's my suggestion." Then the conversation is over.

Since they are still eating and there's only so much time left before we reach the Capitol, I go wandering around the train. Anything to escape that heavy silence that had followed my question, really. I end up in the compartment of the train where we watched the reapings last night. The re-runs are still playing, but this time around after the reapings they pull up screens that list a bunch of facts about the individual tributes from each district. These lists are designated for the people who take bets or give their sponsorship. To me most of the facts seem pointless knowledge. When someone is deciding to sponsor or gamble money for a tribute they don't need to know how many family members a tribute has, or where they used to work, or what grades they had in school. Things that only seem to make them more human. Living breathing people who are the kids of someone, loved by a partner, befriended by neighbors.

With Cecelia's suggestions in mind and the sudden seriousness of the Games, I make more of an effort to absorb what I'm seeing. I can't hide from reality until the last moment. I can't decide to ignore the other tribute's existences until I'm taking it away from them. I have to face it now. I need to now my limitations, and what I'm capable of.

The tributes from District 1, 2, and 4 are the typical Careers. Most of them graduated from special academies that have trained them for the Hunger Games. The male tribute from District 1 has graduated the top of his class. He excelled in science and math, but I'm more curious about what sort of weapons he uses. I don't get to see, of course. That would be giving away something that could be an advantage. His name however, is Copper, and his slicked back hair makes me think of Bud. Not because they resemble each other in any way, but Bud usually comes home covered in grease from a day in factory maintenance and has a horrible knack of petting back his hair; the result something similar to Cooper's style.

Another Career who peeks my direct interest is the girl from District 2; Starlet. A smiley blonde who screams dangerous and reckless; where her district partner is sophisticated and gathered. She has two little sister, and that makes me wonder if she kisses them at night when they crawl into bed, if she holds their hands when they cross streets..

The twitchy girl from District 3 is named Emver. I'm captivated by her reaping, because she cries throughout the whole thing and I have an unspeakable urge to hug her. I didn't notice before, because all I could do was stare at her feet, as she stumbled and jerked her way to the stage. Now I'm forced to read the list. She worked for a company that made useful gadgets. She was a student who excelled in informational technology. District 3's male is eighteen, so are the two tributes from District 4. The girl of 4 volunteered, whereas the boy was pulled. They shook hands a little too long, smiling at each other, and she touched his shoulder briefly before they were escorted to the Justice Building. _Friends or more?_

I can't continue to watch after that. I'll face the humanity of the other fourteen tributes another day. Or tonight at the opening ceremony. Just not now. I flee toward my sleeping compartment, accidentally staggering into Woof who exits the dining just at the same moment. He pushes me into the wall on instinct and before I can think I fling out a hand, grasp his wrist and twist it away from my shoulder. Only when I see the pain on his face do I rip my hand away from the senile man.

"I'm so sorry," I say, reaching for his shoulder, to comfort, to apologize. I don't know what overcame me. All I could think was that he was touching me. He pushed me into a wall. Marcus said never to let them touch you, trap you. But Woof isn't a Peacekeeper. "I didn't mean–"

Woof moves away from my touch, his ghosted blue eyes glued onto my face. He isn't shocked, nor visibly upset, just mystified. He rubs at the wrist I'd snatched and I wordlessly look from the appendage to his face. I try to think of someway to mend this mistake. "Accident," he says to me and moves along the passage, disappearing into a compartment some ways down.

I watch him go for a few moments, before I turn my head and see within the dinning compartment Erik, Cecelia, and Nissa are staring at me. Erik looks away almost immediately, and Nissa turns her head to order one of the Capitol attendants to finish cleaning up their breakfasts.

I flee even faster to my room than beforehand.

Once inside my compartment I sit on the edge of the bed, decide I can't stay still, and begin to pace. I don't know how long I do. All I know is I'm dizzy by the time I reach out a blind hand, twist my fingers into the blankets and sink to the floor, curling up at the base of the bed.

I search painstakingly through my mind for a reason as to why I did that. Why had I reacted toward him (a vague-minded, wheezing old man, no less) in a violent way, on instinct, on a mere _reflex_, when it has always been my true instinct to shelter before harm? Am I capable to do more destruction than I previously thought? Could I not even understand my limitations?

_Is this what Cecelia meant when she told us to enter the arena without doubt?_

I never find out the answers to any of my questions. It's only a handful of minutes before a quiet knock on my door summons me to face the coming day. We're in the Capitol, and I haven't even realized it. I'm steps away from being submitted into the arms of my prep team. I've heard people at school wonder about these sorts of things; how they manage to make the tributes from 8 transform into strangers only within the span of a few hours, what they do to make it that way.

After following Nissa to the compartment everyone else is already standing around in, I distract my troubled thoughts by staring out the window and taking in the sight of the Capitol. Somehow it's more beautiful in person than on television. Bright and idealistic, hues of any and every color. Impossibly it makes me miss home. District 8, gray and lifeless, where the only grass you can find is patchy and yellow, and the only tree I've ever seen was sickly and far beyond reach, ten to twenty feet beyond the electric gate that circles the district.

Nissa is telling Erik tales of how magnificent it is on the _inside_. How wonderful it is that we get to live in luxury for the coming week before the Games begin. Even Cecelia slips in a good word about the food and the decor.

When the train comes to a stop we're swept away immediately into the Remake Center. I lose my mentors and Erik quickly, with the heavy hands of one of my prep team members on my shoulders, guiding me away. The elevator ride is dizzying. "Keera, right?" the woman says to me in the most cringe-worthy affected accent I really do cringe.

"Yes, I'm Keera. And you are.." I take my first good look at her. Since she'd simply stepped forward and pulled me away from everyone else, the same as Erik's prep team member, I never got a good look at her face. Now, I'm stunted by the sight of her. Yes, I knew people in the Capitol were peculiar and had defected fashion senses, but..

"My name is Coral," the woman tells me, her scarlet lips scarcely parting. With a careless hand she throws the waves of striking red over her shoulder. A river of blood hanging from her head, sprouting from her high forehead where the skin is an only slightly less painful red-hue; more pink.

The others, I find quickly, are no less malformed. Coral is the friendliest, she natters goodheartedly about nothing, whereas Lynx, a critical-eyed man with spotted clothes and a shaved head similarly patterned, makes comments about the state they receive me in.

As soon as I'm out of the elevator Lynx forces me into a chair and observes me harshly. He makes many comments about the state of my nails, chipped and dirt-lined. He dislikes my hair. Makes a rude statement about my face; something about off-balanced and high cheekbones and wide eyes. Coral shakes her head and talks over him, telling me what they'll do to fix it. I do not like them very much already, but the first one to make any sort of move toward me is the third prep team member, Alsea, a plump woman with teased and curled blonde-green hair, and a buttery smile.

"Oh, look at you!" says Alsea. "I can't remember the last time we had someone so promising. Darling, you're going to be so pleased when we're finished. Everyone will be wanting to sponsor you." Not really. I smile despite the fact that her attempt to make this experience less uncomfortable is feeble at its best. Not to mention the general disinterest in District 8 that everyone in the Capitol seems to show.

"Thank you," I tell her, but Lynx steps forward to grasp me by the chin, to examine me. Immediately I avert my face from him. The movement reminds me too much of what Ethel does almost every time she squints down at me. I feel the skin of cheek tingling, waiting for the impending slap.

"You don't resist, we don't have a problem," says Lynx. I nod. And immediately they get to work on cleaning me up. I try to resist almost right off the bat, attempting to pull away, move back, using argumentative words if not pleading eyes. They ignore my worries and arguments, soon dropping their pleasant words. Even Alsea starts to get annoyed when they begin ripping off all my body hair and I continue to try to come up with reasons why they should leave it well alone. They have Lynx hold me down after I begin to flinch away from their wax applying.

Soon later, they begin to chatter above my protests as if I'm not even really there. Lynx's manicured nails are digging into the skin on my biceps, while his lips move at a frantic, gossipy rate. I glare at the woman, Coral, as she sits in front of me tearing strips off of my legs, that take the hair away with them.

For hours their hands fly from one piece of me to the next. Changing it to fit what they like. Tweaking here and there, where it's just not good enough. It fazes me the way I stare straight at Alsea's face for nearly half an hour going, with rare blinks and she does not acknowledge my gaze once. As if I am no more than a doll. They never pause to ask me what I like, what I want. Instead, they talk to each other about the tributes this year, who will die in the Bloodbath, who they would bet on if they were allowed.

When I hear Erik's name my eyes snap to Lynx's face. "It's a pity about the boy. He won't last five minutes off the plate. I was hoping to boast about some exciting kills from our tributes this year, but I reckon I do wonder how he'll die–"

"And what if he doesn't," I say, surprising even myself. "What if he wins."

They all look at me in various amusements. Lynx even laughs a bit, and Coral slaps him girlishly on the arm. "Oh, leave her alone. We can't expect her to understand how things work," says Alsea. And they go back to cleaning me up without even considering my statement.

I hate them. I hate them more than I want to, and less than I should.

After they finish waxing and plucking my body, cleaning my nails and face, and whatever else they deem necessary, they ask me to remove my clothing. I do so, though reluctantly. Marcus taught me what modesty was. To respect myself in every way I can. Told me never to let a boy hurt me. But these people are immune to nakedness. By the time I have a perfumed bath, am toweled down, lent a silk robe, I've forgotten what bareness means.

Coral lead me back to the torture chair, as the two other say something about getting Marvin, my stylist, and she leaves behind them as soon as I'm seated. For several minutes I'm left to stare at myself in the vanity mirror. A man, who I presume as Marvin, enters the room and wordlessly waves me over to a door that leads to a room with a simple sitting array and a table between. Windows line the far end wall.. _is_ the far end wall, and below I can see the Capitol sprawling in all directions.

I sit on the couch across from my stylist and he pushes a button on the table. Food arrives. I realize I'm famished and dig in. I jump when Marvin says something, my hand extended toward a dish of plums. I look at him a moment, and nod, then continue eating.

Marvin looks affronted. "I asked you a question."

"Oh." I assumed he'd made a comment. It seemed that with my prep team I'd only been given orders or talked to in a way that required no response.. or merely frowned upon a response. "I didn't hear it, I'm sorry." I sit up and try to act polite. It's an awkward attempt. Since all I want to do is feel wounded by the prep team's behavior.

"How do you normally do you hair?" he asks in a clipped tone.

I observe him for a moment; his balding green hair, his startling purple shaded clothes. "I don't," I tell him simply.

"I see," he says, smiling now. He lifts a hand to his face and leans into it, propped up against the arm of the coach. "Coral seems to think you are the bun type. Lynx says it'll only conflict with that stubborn chin of yours. I seem to be leaning toward Alsea's advice. How do you feel about twists?"

I don't know much about hair. "I just want what is easiest. I want my family to recognize me."

"Then we will keep it simple. I'm willing to leave it down if you are willing to allow us to give you earrings."

"Earrings? As in, cut into my ears?"

"Simple enough, really. One little pinch. You see, I have planned a theme for this year. Your outfit requires these beautifully intricate pieces I designed. Just for you. Won't you wear them?"

I stare at him, unsure if I should tell him how I feel or not. When I am quiet for too long he smiles crookedly, leans across the table and offers me a long, skinny hand to shake. "Forgive me. I have not introduced myself. I am the marvolous Marvin Menthlus." His grin widens. "You remind me of one of my many daughters, Keera. You look very lost."

"I'm in the Capitol, with you, right here," I say. I'm unnerved for an odd reason that he should call me by my first name like an old friend. I don't know him. Or his daughters. I take the hand between us with hesitation. "It's nice of you to do all of this for me," I manage.

Marvin's lips turn down. "I'm not here to harm you. I'm here to help you get sponsors," he says.

"For the Games that I'm forced into, to die," I point out solemnly.

His eyes become hard. "You are a volunteer, have you forgotten? No one forced you into anything. Do not act ungrateful. I had hoped that my prep team did not exaggerate when they told me we received a whiner this year, but I was wrong to hope better of the savage children from the districts."

I'm no longer hungry and I tell him so after a few minutes of silence, as I stare out the window, teeth grinding together. Trying not to be angry, or hurt, or rightly insulted. Maybe he has a point. I did volunteer for this. I might be a victim, but I am a victim that willingly put the noose around my neck. I want to start acting like it, like I really want it this way, because if I didn't want it this way, that means to imply I wanted it the other way, with Aven in my place. No. I don't. I want it this way as much as I wanted it to be me that steals rather than any of the other orphans. Every time one of the children whimpered hungrily or Jak suckled nosily on my finger as a baby, only skin and bones.. I had to take those things from all those other people. Had to.

Not one protest crosses my lips as Marvin does my hair and polishes off the other's work. He ends up making the deal I never agreed to; leaving my hair down and piercing my ears as compromise. I resist the slight pinch of pain, before he applies a salve that instantly relieves it. "There, that wasn't so bad," Mavin sighs as he spins the chair around so we are face to face. He's smiling again, crookedly, one side of his face crinkling upward more than the other.

"No," I say.

"No, it wasn't. And you look breathtaking." I turn to investigate this claim, but he shakes his head. "Not yet. I want the dress on so we have a full effect." I don't disobey, but as he moves around my back, finding the mentioned dress, I reach a curious hand toward my ear. I feel oddly uneven, weighed down. The earrings _are_ extravagant. They are the most expensive thing I've ever worn. Pure silver, encrusted with shining, pale gems. From an earring, my hand strays to my hair, silky feeling for the first time in my whole life. The only thing Marvin did to my hair was pull a few strands back at the temples, holding the hair in place with a clip at the back of my skull. My fingers dance across the item; a butterfly.

"What's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of District Eight?" asks Marvin.

"Textiles," I answer immediately.

"Yes. Textiles are there main trade. They make clothing and every other fabric we can imagine. But I'm not talking about business wise. Appearance. We're all about appearances, stylists. So tell me. What is the first thing that comes to your mind when you picture District Eight the way it is?"

It takes me a moment, to understand what he's asking me. "I think of pollution. The smog. Gray."

"Gray and silver, they're basically the same, no?" says Marvin. I turn my head to find him critically examining a dress held out in front of him. My eyes are drawn in by the item that is both strange and beguiling to me. The dress _is_ more strange than lovely. It's not something I had the ability to make, though that doesn't say much, when usually I deal with blankets or baskets or ropes more oft than dresses. While I wanted to turn away and act uninterested, I feel too curious.

"What fabric is that? I've never used that before." My mind skitters over every weave I've made, every new fabric the factory owner handed to my floor, or that Bracken told me about.

"No. You haven't. It's rather rare. Do you like it?"

I'm memorized by the way it ripples. At first the dress appears to be some kind of metal, like a mirror, reflecting off of its cool silver texture a rainbow of deformed images. But as Marvin shifts, he moves it, and the fabric shimmers, shines, and twists to the movement.

Marvin carefully places it over my head when I come to his beckon. The fabric is smooth and silky against my skin, and thin, falling to just above my knees. I glance back up at the mirror and watch myself move with intrigue. I'm more interested in the fluid nature of the dress than myself. Like water, falling down a stream, but gray and metallic. An outfit that makes my every move look graceful. I am a stranger, an alien, a shiny mutation with ash blonde hair and tinkling earrings and bright, green eyes. "I look strange. Jak.. he'd never know me," I say, touching my cheek.

"Is this Jak a special boy from home?" asks Marvin.

"Yes, very special," I breathe. "He's my baby."

Marvin doesn't understand that I'm being literal and I'm not just giving him a romanticized endearment. "Well I'm sure he'll be stunned by you tonight. Representing his district. I went with silver because recently I visited District Eight for the first time in the twenty years I've been their stylist. Can you believe it took me that long? And you can be sure I was taken aback by the amount of warehouses. All silver and scarred." He touches the dress near my thigh and makes the fabric dance. "I had to make this. Your district partner will be in a suit, similar to this, but since me and Dianna never can agree, she's decided to paint him silver, for added effect."

"Thank you," I say, turning to him. "For not painting me."

Marvin grin is shameless. "I would have," he tells me, honestly, "if I thought it was pretty. But that would be over-clutter."

I nod, appreciating the lack of lies. If anything I look older, and much less like the short, skinny girl with knotted hair who originally walked in here. Two hands run down the length of the dress, running over my hips, and I watch a strange girl in the reflection mirror my movements.

I could have a chance at sponsors looking like this. The girl in the mirror could use a few sponsors. Dying of starvation is a slow, painstaking process, where a few groans will probably escape my mouth, just waiting to meet the fragile ears Arthur possesses. Maybe I could make it a few days into the Games, if I had sponsors watching out for me. Do I want to last a few days? Stand around and watch people fall around me? Run when I see the enemy? Hide? More importantly, _could I_?

Marvin touches my cheek when I am staring so intently in my own face anyone should be concerned.

"You will be radiant," he assures me.

I smile as best I can in return.

Afterward, he tells me it is just about time for the ceremony. We take the elevator down to a floor already bustling with other tributes, mentors, and stylists. It's not loud or lively, instead, it is suppressed and subdue, as everyone stands strictly next to their own carriages. Marvin easily points out the eighth carriage and I rush toward the sight of Nissa, Eric, and Cecelia.

"Where's Woof?" I ask. I can still feel the guilt claw at my stomach at the thought of this morning.

"Sleeping. I left him to his peace," says Cecelia. She overlooks me and praises Marvin for his work when he comes to my side. I throw her a distracted smile for her compliment, but my eyes are distracted by Eric, standing stiffly behind her.

I have an urge to reach out my hands and swipe my thumbs across his cheeks. To clean away all the shimmering body spray that coats his face, from jowls to hairline. Underneath, I can barely detect the blush, as Erik stares at his toes. _Arthur_, I decide. He reminds me of Arthur the most, and I can't help thinking that is the worst one. The most easily hurt or frightened. Who cried at the mere change of my tone when he almost let slip Cayleb's existence in my life to Bracken. If I thought my prep team encounter was unpleasant, call me a selfish being for not considering Erik's.

For the few minutes it takes for the opening ceremony to begin, I stand next to the group, off to the side, trying to act distracted. My hands are unable to stay at my sides as I my fingers itch to trace over the earrings swaying from my ear lobes and multiple times Nissa tells me to stop fidgeting with them.

Cecelia tells Erik and I to smile and wave and be pleasant. She pats Erik on the shoulder, then turns to me and pulls a lock of hair behind my ear with a swift hand. "_Smile_, Keera," she says, more earnestly, before urging us onto the carriage.

Erik has trouble climbing up in his fancy little suit. My hand is instinctive when it reaches up and presses lightly into his lower back, aiding him ahead of me. He turns around to watch me climb in after him and I smile at him, the first true smile of the day.

Erik turns away, either embarrassed or frightened. I'm afraid to know.

As we wait for our turn to be pulled out to the City Center, my eyes trace the massive silhouette of the male tribute from District 7. He's got a ridiculous crown of greenery on his head, only adding to his height, not to mention the amount of bare skin his leafy entourage manages to show. Tan skin, tight and heavy coiled muscles clinging to his limbs. I shudder from staring too long, and turn my eyes away, before I allow my imagination to run wild. Unfortunately I avert my gaze to his district partner; a much, much smaller girl, who from what I can see has an extreme head of poofed brown curls, scarcely tamed by a stylists attempt of gel and ties and bands. Almost as if sensing my stare, the girl turns her head, and catches my eyes with wild brown ones. By her face I can see she's my senior by many years, maybe even eighteen. Her sneer is brief, but there, before she turns away again.

Out the corner of my eye Erik is shaking. "Do you know her?" he whispers to me.

I'm surprised that he's spoken, since he's never tried to before, but I'm pleased, too. "No," I say. "I can't remember her name at all."

"She looks like she hates you."

"She hates all of us. We're standing in her way from going home," I say, numbly, before I realize that is not something Erik should hear. I cover my mistake. "But really, she's just scared. Like you and me. We're all scared. She's just hoping that I'll be so scared of her I won't see her own fear."

"You really think so?" asks Erik, blue eyes suddenly intense in mine. They flicker to the District 7 chariot as it lurches into motion, lingering on the male tribute. "And him? Is he scared, too?"

"Everyone. Even him."

"But he's so big," says Erik.

"Yes. He's big and your small and I'm blonde and that girl has brown eyes. That doesn't mean they're not scared or that they aren't just like us. Children.." my voice trails off, as my mind makes a million connects at once. Brown eyes like Aven or Felecia. Short like Jak. Tall like Bud. Starlet from District 2, smiley like Bracken. I force myself to shake my head as our chariot begins to move and we're nearing the exit. "Just because they don't look like you, or act the same way, doesn't mean they aren't capable of feeling what we do."

Erik's voice is quiet. "Could they miss their family, like I do?"

"Yes," I say. My eyes close briefly. "Just like it."

"And do they–" Whatever it was that Erik wanted to know, I never get to hear, because the instant we are outside, in the street, his quiet voice is swallowed by the monstrosity of the Capitol. There are people everywhere, and noise, and lights. I try not to squint, and remember to smile at the last moment.

As we near the president's mansion, I realize throughout the whole loop of the City Center I've had a hand up near my ear, fidgeting and twisting the earrings around my fingers. I force the arm to my side as we pause to hear the President's welcoming words. I would be lying if I didn't say I was tense throughout the whole ceremony; my ears pained by the loud noise, my eyes straying to the screen whenever Eric or I were briefly shown, wondering what my kids were thinking, what Cayleb saw, how Bracken would feel when he saw Erik and I standing next to each other, only a few days away from slaughter.

I'm sighing at the sight of the Training Center. We're nearly upon it when Erik mutters something I don't catch above the roaring crowd. I bend closer. "What?"

"Do you think Bracken is watching us now?" he asks me, his eyes flickering everywhere but to me.

It is a stupid question, really. Of course Bracken is watching this. Everyone has to watch. He knows that, because he's been forced to watch the Hunger Games his entire life. But I can see the sadness in his eyes from where I stand.

"Yes," I whisper back to him. "He's still watching over you."

Erik eyes fly to me, confused by the wording, but I have no answer. I've spotted a Peacekeeper, all dressed in white, standing at the doors of the Training Center and as we are pulled passed him, even though he looks nothing like Cayleb, I'm thinking of my Peacekeeper from home. Missing him so certainly and suddenly, I jump from the chariot the moment it stops. I don't bother greeting Cecelia or Marvin or Nissa, who await me there. Nissa shouts after my back that we're on the eighth floor. Now that she's given me an escape route I maneuver toward the elevators, set on fleeing this loud, echoed room full of people I don't want to look at.

I'm eager to find a sink and wash my face in it. I press the elevator button, then glance at my feet and press it about twenty more times. As I'm waiting I reach for the earrings and pull them from my ears, tossing them to the ground without thinking. They would be enough to feed my whole family for months, and Marvin put them in my ears as though they were nothing more than an accessory. They should be more.

When the doors open I step inside and flinch when another figure slips in beside me, not two moments later. Behind them another person follows, and then another. Three people I hadn't noticed heading my way. I think instantly of the coming arena. If that happened then I would be dead already. Fortunately this is only an elevator.

The three people turn up to be both tributes from District 1, and their mentor, Gloss. The female tribute was the one to slip in first, whisking in front of me, hand reaching for the display of buttons. Her name flits into my mind: Flutter. She is thin-lipped and has brunt auburn hair that is twisted onto the top of her head. Her outfit of glittering diamonds, knotted into a strategically placed net of metal chain, scarcely covers all her pink bits, screaming flawlessness in every form. She sees me looking at her with one glance over her shoulder. "Children," she mutters and Gloss laughs uproariously.

"What floor?" asks Flutter.

I realize the question is directed at me one moment too late.

"Keera's from Eight," says Copper without batting an eye.

The ride is short, since they are only on the first floor, being from District 1, but throughout the whole ride my eyes are peeking at Copper, trying to figure him out. He is taller than he appeared on camera, towering at least a head over me. My stomach lurches to my feet when they exit and he is the last one to leave. I know he knows I've been staring at him, when he turns around, still walking away and winks at me. "Pretty dress," he mouths before the doors close and I'm left flushed and unsettled.

When I reach the eighth floor I realize I really do need Nissa and all those other people I've left behind. If they were there, District 1 wouldn't have fit into the elevator with me. I wouldn't have been left alone to face the Careers. The nerve fraying boy from District 1 who seems so composed and intelligence I feel like a little girl underneath the sharp, precision-filled gaze of his black eyes. Or how much less of a woman I felt when I was doused in Flutter's presence and the butt end of her snarks.

A Capitol attendant finds me standing lost outside the elevator and points me to my room. I thank them profusely before entering and locking the door behind me. I strip, find the shower and wash away the mask. For a moment, I examine myself in front of the mirror, critically, before I feel an urge to wrap my arms around myself. I dress into night clothes, tie my hair with a rubber band and find the bed.

Nissa comes to summon me to watch the re-playings of the opening ceremony. When no amount of pounding on my door would rouse me, Cecelia arrives, her voice somehow softer, yet more stern than Nissa's. I sit up at her continuous request to join them in the television room. Feel an urge to come when she asks me if anything is wrong and that she's a mentor because she's supposed to help tributes. I'm across the room when she asks if it's about something that happened.

"No," I say, loud enough to hear through the door, when she asks if it's because of my rough time with my prep team. "It wasn't them. They were excellent. I looked great thanks to them and Marvin."

"Then what's the matter?" asks Cecelia, rattling the doorknob.

"Just.. trying to do what you said," I say. "Just trying to figure everything out before it's too late."

"Need help?"

I laugh. A high and unnatural sound. "How?"

"Well I'm full of handy advice. Is this.. about that alliance question you had this morning? Are you still wanting one?"

I pull the door open, so that I can see her face, wondering if it would be disappointed. It isn't. Cecelia is composed and meeting my gaze. "What would you tell me if I told you I couldn't kill anyone?"

"I would tell you that I admire you. I've met a lot of kids who swore that same thing, and who, when the time came, killed just the same. But I've also met a rare amount of kids who said they could kill and ended up incapable, or never got a chance to test that promise. Are you telling me you can't kill anyone, Keera?"

"Should I know?"

Now it is Cecelia who laughs, softly, shortly. "No," she says. "No one knows."

It terrifies me not to know. Not to know what I'm capable of. "I don't think I can. I think about my children and I see them in everyone. Even you. I see Felecia in you, in Nissa. Bud in Copper. Arthur in that girl from Seven. Sometimes I think I'm just obsessing, or I'm missing them too much.. but.. other times, I know I'm not really seeing them. I'm just seeing the person beyond the face. I'm trying to find the kid in them, because.. well I don't even know why. I don't want to kill anyone. Not Erik. Never Erik. And I've been thinking about it, if I would kill the Careers. That girl from One, who made me feel so awful about myself in only one word and look... I can't.. I _would_ be her alliance member, if she asked."

"Really?"

"Yes, and I know it's stupid. She would kill me in a heartbeat. So would all the other Careers. But I would. Even if I have to sit up all night to make sure no one slits my throat, or maybe I'd do it just to watch their backs for them, I'm not sure which. Both? All I know is I would." _And I just don't know why._

Cecelia seems bemused by my sudden list of confessions, or maybe it is the mention of 'my' children. I feel sheepish for spilling it all to her, but she had offered to help. And it feels unbelievably nice to say it out-loud. I try to think of someone in my normal life that I could spill such thoughts to, all my worries and frets, but no one immediately comes up. I don't like telling Aven, in fear of putting strain on her. I don't tell Bracken, because we hardly ever interacted as friends until recently. Bud and the other children wouldn't understand much. The only person I conjure up is Cayleb. An image of him as he scolds me on the walks home from my most recent job. Since he knows I won't listen, he only halfheartedly tells me that he wishes I'd stop stealing and that he would really like if I did, and I recall how I would reply to him by telling him about all the little things the children do that make me do it. Jak crying and whimpering, sucking hungrily at my hair at night. Felecia losing weight or licking her plate after eating. Bud's disappointed sigh. Aven's sharp jawline. He knows I see these things, that I despair over my children, and adore them more than my own life.

What would he say to me if I told him I was willing to take an alliance with anyone who asked for my protect and loyalty? Shudder, probably, at my idiocy, my naïve instinct, my fatal lack of self-preservation.

Cecelia doesn't do that. She merely pats me on the arm and invites me to dinner for the hundredth time. Her smile says that she's out of advice, that she doesn't want to tell me what I'm thinking is impossible.

Who knows? Maybe I'll die with a hand extend toward my killer in appeal. In my mind that's better than being the one who cut another person down.


End file.
